


Power of Taste

by clockworkmoon



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Dystopian World, Gen, also feuilly will be a computer genius that programms selfmade robots psss, it will not be so sad i hope not all the time??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkmoon/pseuds/clockworkmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris in the near dystopian future. No one is safe, as They are waiting in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power of Taste

_"You didn't have to be strong willed_

_all it took was refusal dissent being stubborn_

_we had bits of essential courage_

_but in the end it was simply case of good taste_

_just good taste_

_that asks you to stand up wince and hiss a derision_

_even if it means loosing precious capital of the body_

_the head"_

_=_

 

No one really knows when the change happened. Who started it. Who was the first to rule. _They_ just came.

_They. Them._

Graffitti on the walls all over the city that was not so dirty, however, is it even possible for Paris not to be dirty at all? But _They_ tried. _They_ get rid of beggars and hobos, lightless alleys weren't so fearsome because you knew almost for sure that there won't be a knife and a cold smile awaiting you in the darkness. And so people cheered, because _They_ had taken care of all the scum. 

But then everyone realised that it is true what people say- every coin has two sides. So while the streets were safe, the houses weren't. And of course, after a while, all the darkness had returned, only now was even stronger. It didn't matter whether on the streets or in the fake warmness of their own house, the danger lured. _They_ waited.

 

=

Grantaire knows the tales; knows that there were times when people weren't afraid to yell slogans and words of truth. He knows old tales of blood that washed the streets of their city; he knows of years of darkness and years of better times when people rioted and protested and gained what they fought for.

He didn't learn that from any books (are there any books on those histories left?). It's all thanks to his mother, who whispered to him these tales like her mother whispered them to her; between goodnight kisses and smiles in the morning, between wiping soup from chubby cheeks and straightening clothes. And he grew up knowing every unspoken truth and never really understanding; but one day, he finally had, and he wanted to change the world so it could be the place it used to be. He wanted the world to became this place upon which his mother would smile openly, not scaredly, in short, greedy, stolen from everyday life breaths for freedom, hidden between songs and tales and casual, small acts of love.

So he wondered how boys (because they weren't men, not really, not yet, not with their hopes high and proud eyes, because Grantaire knew that this is youth; and he, he is a man already, even if he is older by a mere few years), how these boys knew. Few of them, maybe, had families like his- where mothers or fathers sneaked pretty tales of freedom in the goodnight kisses; but Marcus or Courfeyrac, they couldn't have heard. Their families rich, with history and wide and impressive, breath-taking troop of ancestors. Fortunes and secrets of many generations, but secrets that never consisted of legends of Paris from decades ago. And even though they weren't fed with those pipe dreams (as freedom is nothing but a pipe dream) their whole lives, they were here.

The same place as him. They believed, but he wasn't sure what they believed in. What they intended to destroy. They had to be afraid, though, they had to realise that unknown is never safe. It devours everything around and builds unfamiliar situations and objects and languages around the destroyers. And sneers. So it often happened that he tried to put out that fire in their hearts, because they had no idea what change brings. Or rather, how much it takes away.

 

=

Feuilly waved something before his eyes. Grantaire blinked, yawned and looked up at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, good sir?" Feuilly just smiled and nodded to Enjolras, who stood by the window and was staring at something on the street, or imagining far away situations that happened or will happen. Grantaire shook his head and loudly stumbled upon his feet.

"Time for me" he mouthed at Feuilly who looked stressed out. Grantaire shrugged, grabbed his flask (he tried to control his drinking since he started attending Les Amis meetings. Enjolras said he doesn't need a fool who will probably kill himself after one meeting because he will run into police officer or trip under the car while drunk) and walked as silently as he could (the weed he smoked earlier on wasn't helping. Zetla and whisky weren't the fairest pair of lovers and he always felt sick afterwards. But he had to recompensate the drinking ban somehow.)

He didn't feel up to facing Enjolras. He said some stupid things, his tongue loosened on zetla and alcohol, his brain couldn't filter his words on time. And Enjolras's eyes lighten up and he looked like a fiery archangel, gold hair and fire in his eyes and his voice so proud and so sure of what he was saying, and Grantaire never felt so much love for someone and so much hatred for himself. But it must be a talent, he thought, while he sneaked out through the door, being able to cause a reaction like that.

He walks into the streets. He rushes by the corners and nooks and crannies. He doesn't want Enjolras to be right; he doesn't want to be caught, not again.

 

 

_("aeons of his hair_

_pinned into the curls_

_of innocence")_

 

He still remembers the blood and dark days in the cell; deep and desperate sobbs from throats he can't see; deep and desperate sobbs coming from nearby (that happen to be his own throat). He shuts his eyes, and stops for a moment. To think as little as possible, to drink and mute everything, this is what matters.

 

=

 

 

She sits by her desk and tries to focus on the homework. But it doesn't make any sense. She tried to use the Internet for more research material, but it only unnerves her more. What does it even mean, the site you wanted to reach is unavailable, isn't the fucking Internet supposed to be covering everything?

Her papa doesn't say much. Or rather, he talks to her, but not about the things she wants to learn about.

He doesn't talk to her about shadows under his eyes and whatever casts them. He does't explain to her why the history teacher can't speak of certain things (why can't he? What are these matters?). He doesn't talk about the reasons why people disappear. He doesn't talk about why he paces nervously, why the poorer kids at school steal glances at her, scared.

And he says “We're safe”. When she was younger, she believed him. What can possibly be dangerous in a big house, a loving dad, a pink room full of toys, walls in paintings of pretty people from old ages and a kitchen full of fruits and sweets and sunlight. But when she grew up, she noticed his voice breaks a bit when he ensures her she's safe. She notices how other kids cannot afford having their wardrobe replaced every two months. She notices that sunlight in the kitchen causes deep shadows of things unknown. Valjean knocks on her door. 

“Papa, you know it's always opened for you” she smiles at him and turns back to the screen. 

“What my little ant is working on today?” he asks as he places the hand on her gold hair. Cosette explains her homework( _but she tried to find different sources and there's only this one webstie, other ones are deleted or simply quote the only source and she tried to google related events, but it's a blind alley_ ) and Valjean's smile fades a little bit, almost unnoticedly.

“You know, honey, I think that your teacher will understand that other sources were unavailable. You tried your best, this is what matters.”

Her eyes are hard when she says

_sometimes trying is not enough_

=

**Author's Note:**

> The first quotation, and the title, is from Zbigniew Herbert's poem "Potęga smaku". I translated it into English. The second quotation is from Herbert's "Przesłuchanie Anioła"(Interrogation of the Angel) which is my favorite poem ever- discribing a proud, political prisoner being interrogated in a very violent way.


End file.
